George pauses. “How annoying.” He peers at Sir David. “I do believe you are developing some degree of resistance.” Two strides take him across the room and back to the table—Sir David has barely had time to stand up. “Sit down,” he snarls, putting the full force of his will behind the command.

“But—”

“Down.” Old George stands over the banker and places his hands on the man’s shoulders, pushing gently. Skin contact reinforces compulsion. Sir David sinks back into his chair, confused.

“I think you were just telling me how depressed you are feeling. Pressure of work and all that. Despondent and low. Positively suicidal in fact. Isn’t that so, Sir David?”

“G-g-gug. Ugh.” Sir David shudders.

“Sir David, why don’t you write a note? Something brief and touching, explaining how guilty you feel about the manner in which Oscar Menendez manipulated you into giving him unsupervised control of a hundred-million-pound trading fund. Or perhaps you could confess to your sleepless nights worrying about the millions of pensioners and orphans starving to death for want of the money your enterprise looted from their retirement funds.” George grimaces. “I think that might be over-egging the pudding, on second thoughts. But write it anyway. It’ll make you feel so much better, won’t it?”

Sir David picks up a pen from his desk set, and retrieves a leather-bound planner from one drawer. His motions are jerky, almost robotic. He begins to write rapidly, scrawling spiky glyphs across a page as Old George walks back to the window unit. He uses a compact tool to loosen the bolts that secure one of the corner window units in place. Sir David has almost filled a page with a rambling confessional of his inner turmoil by the time Old George peels away the gasket around the glazing unit.

“Jolly good. Sir David, if you could step over here, please?”

Sir David shuffles towards the window. Old George is ready for him: holding the waist-high railing with one hand, he pushes hard against the glazing unit with the other. It resists for a few seconds, then pops free, tumbling away into the night. A gust of chilly air rushes in, and Sir David takes half a step back. “No—”

“You are depressed, Sir David. Mortally tired. You really need a break.” George takes him by the shoulder and propels him into the void. “It’s only traditional,” he adds. There is a faint scream, abruptly cut off.